Dueling Brandos

2 Books-his Autobiography And A Thousand-page Epic-go Toe To Toe Trying To Tell The Story Of An Acting Legend

October 14, 1994|By Paul Galloway, Tribune Staff Writer.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Battle of the Brando Books.

In this corner, "Brando," a heavyweight biography by the relentless, hard-hitting Peter Manso; published by Hyperion, its 1,021 pages tipping the scales at 4 pounds, 1 ounce, it's priced at $29.95.

In the opposite corner, "Brando: Songs My Mother Taught Me," a long-awaited autobiography by mythic, reclusive Marlon as told to Robert Lindsey; published by Random House, its 468 pages weighing in at 2 pounds, 2 1/2 ounces, it goes for $25.

The bell for this bout sounded in late September, when the two volumes were released within days of one another, thus forcing a choice for those readers unwilling to buy both and raising the same sort of questions for the merely curious.

Where do you put your money? What's the smart bet?

Judging the books solely on how they punch and jab at the complexities and influence of this American icon, the Manso book, in this reporter's opinion, wins a solid decision, which also seems the consensus of the early reviews.

A measure is their contrasting treatments of one of the most important moments in Brando's career, the opening night of "A Streetcar Named Desire" on Dec. 3, 1947.

Manso sets the stage with an absorbing narrative, relating that strong word-of-mouth from out-of-town tryouts had made tickets a premium and that a glittering celebrity audience would include actors Montgomery Clift, Paul Muni and Edward G. Robinson, as well as Brando's parents, Marlon Sr. and Dodie, and his two sisters, Jocelyn and Frannie.

Much of the anticipation, Manso writes, centered on Bud Brando, a handsome, turbulent 23-year-old high-school dropout from Libertyville, Ill., who was to portray brutish New Orleans factory worker Stanley Kowalski in the new Tennessee Williams drama, to be directed by Elia Kazan.

The female lead was Jessica Tandy as Blanche DuBois, a fading, fragile Southern belle and the sister of Kowalski's wife, played by Kim Hunter.

Brando's reputation was already established. His stunning performance a year earlier in a small part in "Truckline Cafe," which closed after only 10 performances, had sent shockwaves of acclaim through the theater community.

Everybody was saying this kid was something special, an actor's actor, possessing a charismatic intensity that was rare and powerful.

When actor Hume Cronyn, Tandy's husband, attended rehearsals for "Streetcar," he became concerned, sensing that "the meaning of the play had been altered" and the star role had shifted from his wife to Brando.

An eye-opening performance

Cronyn was right. On opening night-one of the most electric and transforming nights in the American theater-Brando would become a legend.

Manso writes: "The audience applauded for a full half hour, in fact, and when Brando came out, the house caved in."

In his dressing room, Brando showed friends a jesting telegram: "Try not to make an ass of yourself. Mom."

Manso quotes an actress present at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre that night: "Watching him was like being in the eye of a hurricane."

And Bobby Lewis, a founder of the Actors Studio: "He'd created not only a standard of acting, but a style, which was unfortunate, since everybody after that wanted to act like Marlon Brando."

Manso then names a few of the first imitators: James Dean, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, Rip Torn. The ranks would eventually include Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, Chicago's Steppenwolf actors; the list goes on and on.

Brando would also change American fashion in "Streetcar" with the first-ever fitted blue jeans and skin-tight T-shirts, invented by costume designer Lucinda Ballard.

In Brando's book, the account of his "Streetcar" triumph is brief and understated to the point of trivialization: "After the opening night in New York, we went to the Russian Tea Room and read the reviews, starting with the New York Times. Before long, all the reviews were in and everyone relaxed; we had a hit." (Manso reports that the cast party was at `21.')

Brando is occasionally less than profound in his insights: "Nothing, I learned, attracts women more than fame, money and success."

And he is consistently self-deprecating about his calling ("Acting is the least mysterious of crafts. Everybody acts . . ."), regularly discounting his work ("I never believed I played the part of Stanley (Kowalski) successfully," he declares, which makes him unique).

The authors square off

The most telling difference between the two books is simply the difference between the "unauthorized" biography, which seeks to know everything, whether uplifting or tawdry, and the memoir, which, no matter how "honest" and confessional its aim, is by nature self-serving.

In interviews during recent stops in Chicago to promote their books, writers Manso and Lindsey, Brando's surrogate, spoke of their techniques and impressions and reflected on their different approaches.